No matter how swiftly he pursued this riddle, he could not bring it to a halt. Nay, for aught I know, some of them may even now have got scent of me. ‘Precisely. This person—this Jonathan Wild, whom I beheld for the first time, scarcely an hour ago, in Wych Street, is—I know not why—my enemy. Again, he would ask a few questions, and Ruth would answer them. He could not pull her soul apart now to satisfy that queer absorbing, delving thing which was his literary curiosity; he had put her outside that circle.
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